So Right Wrong Things
by koalatygirl
Summary: Another Helena-take of the 2x05 Sestra scene. The words mean: "You're disposable. Felix isn't." You're ready to let go of the pain in your chest. It's growing, reaching out to your limbs, pumping in your blood. The blood that you share with her. It hurts too much to be needed but never wanted. "You only want to use me."


"I can't let her shoot." He says it like he can stop you. But he can't. You are going to pull the trigger.

You can feel his gun pointing at you, watching you, gauging you, threatening you. Threatening you. A life full of threats and punishment keep you steady, still. But this threat is empty. You will pull the trigger; he will pull the trigger. Problem fixed. Rachel dead. Sarah and Kira safe. His bullet will tear through your skin and sink deep inside. You hope it will be quick enough to forget when you slip away, to somewhere far away from here. You can only wish for that place to be white, and everything you touch will feel like feathers, and you can watch Sarah and hear her voice—most important her laugh—because you long to hear it. And you will always be full, never empty. Never

empty like now, rotting without the things you need to survive.

Love.

Suffocating with the things that make you ready to pull the trigger.

Fear.

You're ready to fire. What you're not ready for is living around Sarah, but not with Sarah, like the way she passed you off this morning, bouncing you between other people so she could keep you away. Away from a sister who doesn't love you as you love her will hurt less.

Your finger curls around the trigger. The past you have with this sniper is different from now. Then, the gun weighed you down like lead in your hands, in your head, in your body, in your soul (if you had one). So heavy with the weight of darkness, cruelty (sin?). But now it is light. Light like the air. Light like you, illuminating the dark space with the love for your sister. Sarah will be safe, so safe, with Rachel gone. And she will be happy, so happy, with her Kira.

Without you.

"Helena, listen to me. There's another way."

Her voice panics, flowing over you—through you—cooling you, calming you. A voice of music, hypnotic and captivating. If you could listen forever, forever would be forgiving. If only her words were left uninterpreted. If only you could disconnect the sounds from the words or the words from their meaning, like the way you disconnect _person_ from _threat_ when you prepare to pull the trigger.

"We can make a deal for Felix but I need your help. Only you can help me find Swan Man."

_I need your help. I need your help. I need your help. _Felix. _Only you. Only you. Only you._ But, Felix.

The words mean: "You're disposable. Felix isn't."

You're ready to let go of the pain in your chest. It's growing, reaching out to your limbs, pumping in your blood. The blood that you share with her. It hurts too much to be needed but never wanted. "You only want to use me."

You see Rachel—the problem—through your scope and feel the light gun fitting into you—the fix—and then you see her, your twin, standing in your way.

"No. That's not true."

Not true is everything you know.

Your identicals are abominations: Not True.

Tomas cared for you: Not True.

You are the original: Not True.

You are the light: Not True.

God can save you:

Not True.

Truth is a fog. It's always away, collected somewhere you aren't. You've gone to it; you've wanted to touch it and believe it's tangible. But when you get there, it's gone and has instead collected somewhere you aren't.

"You saved my life. You—you're my sister."

But these are truths. You feel it in your bones, your blood, your heart. You feel lighter; the gun now carries weight. _You're my sister, _like you belong to Sarah. _Belong to Sarah._ Calculating breaths come into you, mechanized and detached, like you're not even here. Because _Sarah—_your sister, your twin, your _light_—let you in.

_"Sarah, we make a family, yes?"_

_"You—you're my sister."_

"Helena," her voice cracks with strain and grief and your stomach twists into painful knots of her words. You cling to each one as her eyes widen and glisten and lock with yours, holding you still and melting away the thirst for Rachel's death. "I thought—I thought I killed you. I couldn't tell anybody what I lost." The words slip into whispers and sorrow. They fragment and blur your vision of her as tears gather in your eyes like the foggy glass of Art's fish tank.

_Lost._ Meaning Sarah had something to lose. She had you. You had her.

Do you really want to lose her again? Do you really want her to lose you again? Your finger retracts ever so slightly.

"You came back. Please put—put down the gun." Tears drip onto her cheeks. They hurt like the blades slicing into your skin, but like the blades you need her tears. They speak to you, telling you of things you thought you knew before the bullet from her gun missed your heart. Things you have since questioned. Things that are true. Words can lie; emotions can't.

Your sister is hurting inside: True.

She is hurting because she hurt you: True.

She wants you to stay alive: True.

She cares for you: True.

Sarah can save you:

_"Please."_

True.

You move slowly, even though you are sure. The gun is heavy again and it falls in your lap when you release your balanced grip. Taking it with you as you come to your shaking feet, you watch as Sarah's defensive hand extends into an inviting one, reaching out for you. "That's good," she encourages you to set the rifle aside, and you do so, leaving it behind. Leaving behind your violence and your anger and your need to destroy the demons others keep creating.

"Come down." Her hand touches your fingers and holds them delicately, guiding you forward. The touch of her skin on yours feels so right; you've missed feeling right. You bridge the endless space between you and her, stepping off the platform and coming to face her, where she holds your hand in the hair longer than you expect and your fingers unwind to press your palm to hers. _So right._

_"_Thank you."

It makes your vision blur even more, tears spilling down your face because it hurts to feel this way. To be full of rightness when you're doing the wrong things. To be full of hope when you're drowning in fear. To be full of love when you've only known hate. "You make me cry, Sestra."

Your life is built of people telling you what to do and you obeying their demands to avoid one pain or another. But your actions on their demands burrow in your head, making you scared of them, the world, yourself.

Sarah told you to put down the gun and you obeyed her like you've been taught your whole life. But her smile is something you've never felt. It tells you truths like her tears did. It says you made the right choice and you don't feel afraid. She touches her forehead to yours.

"Come on, Meathead."

"Don't call me this." But your lips twitch up in a foreign shape and your heart thuds because you want her to say it again.

Her hand falls on your shoulder, turning you towards the door as you walk together. _Together._ Like you always knew you would be. Her arm comes around you, resting on your other shoulder, pulling you closer to her. You've never known safety, but you this must be close. Your head fits into her neck like she is the missing piece you've always needed to keep from falling time and time again. You will stay standing for her.


End file.
